In Miracle's Wake
by Talos the Saiyan
Summary: The Tuffles were an advanced race, renowned for their technological development. But their technology did not prepare them for the coming of the Saiyans. In one night, they were wiped from history. Those few fortunate enough to survive scattered to the stars, a united people no more. Now, follow one of the last of the Tuffles on the search to find a way to save his people.
1. What Cannot be Changed, and What Can

The report came blurring in through the headpiece of his armour.

"The West wall has fallen! The western wall has fallen! Please, send as much help as you can, they're killing us!"

He moved his hand, touching the side of his armoured helmet, depressing a button hidden under the thick skin of metal, and triggering his own communications system. The words he spoke were dull, spoken a thousand times before.

"There's nothing that can be done, Western Wall. I'm sorry."

Silence, and then a loud scream of pain and rage from the other side.

"What do you mean? They're coming at us from all sides, but we're holding! Commander, please, you can still save us! Supplies are low, but the sonic cannons are still active!" It was true, in the background of the transmission, he could just hear the screaming wails of the cannons, designed to turn sound into a deadly force. Shredding muscle and bone. Particularly effective against the foes who were attacking tonight.

But it would be no use. In the end, even the cannons would fail. The Western Wall would fall, and then the Souther, and the Northern. Each time, they'd cry for help, demand and plead with him, tearing at his heart. Each time, he could only answer the same.

"Commander, Commander! There's a big one coming! Oh...oh shit, I think it's the king. Get everyone over here now and we can end the war tonight! Please, commander, if these monsters win it's the end of all of our people! We're all going to die if you don't do something! You can save us, you can save us all!"

"I'm sorry." The man repeated, his eyes pressed tightly closed. "I can't save any of you. You're already dead. You died many years ago. This is a dream, and I can't save anything."

Moments later, the transmission was broken as he knew it would. The last sound he heard the screaming of the men, and the whining roar of a Ki blast decimating the wall. Then, there was the howl of the victors, a bestial and monstrous bellow from a creature the size of a mountain. He didn't need to check to know what was happening. He'd experienced it all hundreds of time before.

The Oozaru were climbing the walls.

* * *

"Caspi Station, come in Caspi Station. This is the registered trader ship, Wanderer requesting permission to dock. Please respond."

Roran sat behind the bank of controls that made up the command desk of his ship, the Wanderer. He was tired, memories of his nightmare still fresh in his mind. He was used to it by now, for it seemed that no more time than a week or so would pass between visitations. He'd long since resigned himself to the fact that he was destined to have it for the rest of his life.

Set before the bank of computers, there was a long screen, which showed the image of the planet that he was now approaching. Doron was a black, barren world, all crumbling stone, with no atmosphere, and no sign of life at all. It hung sullenly in space before him, cratered from impacts that had marked its surface. No species lived there, nor had any ever done so. It was simply a world that had never developed. The shade of something that might have been. And so, it had remained for hundreds of years. Up until the discovery of a rare metal under the surface. Now, there was life, of a kind. Hundreds of ships, from hundreds of races clustered around the planet, a dozen different mining operations going on constantly below. It was a place outside of the usual laws; a place where anyone could come and carve out their fortune. If they were smart enough.

If they weren't, their deaths would help the next person trying to carve out their fortune. There were factions, and rivalries that went back almost to the first ships here. In the decades since the metal had been discovered, whole armies had been formed, alliances struck, and territory gained.

Doron was in a constant state of low-grade warfare. Mining rights and territory shifting as battles played out below. No one knew exactly who had started it, but no one was eager to end it either. Money didn't matter here, just mining equipment and the power to hold some ground long enough to make use of it. Mercenaries flocked to the place in their hundreds, certain employment bringing them quickly and surely. There were always those looking for a quick job to be done, or someone to be killed, or some ground to be held. Good money was made here, but those who had never even seen a mining drill in their lives.

And of course, like all places that housed this many ships for such an extended period of time, there was a station in orbit of the world. Caspi. He was drawing near it now. Watching the approach with a technician's eye for detail.

Caspi was one of the old style space station. Nothing new or fancy, but a lot of bulk, and a lot of armour. It had a central body, a massive sphere which was about three miles long and another three wide. Though, from this distance it looked smooth, in reality, the surface was broken up by many turrets, viewing rooms, docking areas, reactor ports, and various other things of that nature.

Surrounding the already impressive dome-body of the station, there was a superstructure of metal wires and railings. They looked gossamer thin from this far out, but in reality, each one was strong and large. They surrounded the station, and acted as an interface port for the ships that were always coming or leaving. The superstructure could be recalibrated rapidly, to fit any sort of docking ship, and contained amongst other things, a means of rapid transport to the body of the station. It allowed Caspi to accommodate almost any type of visitors.

Of course, contained in the super structure there were also weapons, shield generators, squadrons of fighters, and according to rumour, a few capital ships that belonged to the station. Just in case anyone tried to make trouble.

Roran thought that it rather looked like a rib cage clasping a stone heart when taken all in all, but had to admit that he was somewhat biased in this respect, since he hated the place. It was exactly the sort of place he would rather have avoided. Too much potential trouble if anyone realised what type of ship the Wanderer actually was. Which just meant that it was exactly the place his objective could be found.

After decades of wandering the stars, Roran was starting to consider it a definite possibility that the universe existed mostly to spite him. He looked out into the viewscreen now, while he let the computer handle last minute course correction. His eyes narrowed, and he tried to discern the ships that already clustered closely to the station's body. Most of them were too far out to be seen yet, and others were of a model he didn't recognise. But he did see the saucer-like shape of a Planet Trade vessel, nestled in amongst the metal scaffolding. Unsurprising, he supposed. The Planet Trade could be found wherever there was profit in a world like this. He was just surprised that they hadn't taken it over entirely yet.

Maybe it wasn't worth their time if it wasn't full of screaming people to kill.

"Wanderer, This is Caspi Station. We have you on our instruments now, can you confirm your purpose here?"

"Just visiting, Caspi." Roran said, reaching down to flick a button that set the channel. "Was passing through and hoped to take a crack at the market, you know how it is. Not an experience to be missed."

There was the sound of chuckling from the other end. "No indeed. I take it you can pay our rates?"

"Sending credit information now."

A beat, and then, "Okay, you've got more than enough in your account. We're setting up a docking field for you now, do you require any special needs be met to dock?"

"No, standard configuration ship."

"Good enough then, please follow the course we're transmitting to you now."

The computer gave a soft beep, informing him that it had received the data. Roran gave a word of thanks to the faceless tech, and signed off. Setting the Wanderer to automatically follow the course provided. It would take about an hour or so to approach, but that was to be expected in this part of space. You didn't want to arrive too quickly. After all, arriving fast could make you look like a target to those who didn't want to be found. It made it seem like you had a specific goal in mind.

Arriving slowly was much safer, and gave him times besides. He needed to make sure that everything was in order for his visit.

Making sure the course was locked, Roran stood up, and let his gaze wander from the viewscreen. The bridge of the Wanderer was a mid-sized room, roughly spherical in nature. His own command seat was placed near the front of the spear, where the viewscreen was stretched widely across the wall. There was similar seating for two other people, but those places were long empty. He could run the ship on his own, and didn't need hep from anyone else.

This philosophy extended to the rest of the Wanderer as well, he met no one as he tracked down the halls, save for the occasional drone slaved to the main ship computer that was on a repair mission, or set to be doing maintenance. The Wanderer was not a big ship, but it was able to easily house about twenty living people of standard physiology. All it played host to was him. Him and his memories.

Across the hall, there was an elevator, which he stepped into, punching in the deck to be taken. After a moment, the doors slid closed, and he felt the soft motion of movement. Roran closed his eyes, still feeling the after-effects of his dream. The terror in the voices of the men he had once led.

How he had hated it once. He had hated it because it reminded him of his failure, of the people he had let die. But that had been long ago, and he was old now. Too old for such hates. They just felt cold and distant. He opened his eyes, and looked at the far wall. The elevator was a large tube, big enough for about five people. The walls were plastered with reflective glass, and he was looking into the steady gaze of his own reflection.

"You should have died a long time ago." He said to the image.

Roran was a heavy-set man for his own species, which made him light by the standards of most others. His bones were light, and he could limber, but his musculature wasn't as well developed, and even though he was well trained and drilled, he knew he looked fairly non-threatening compared to most other soldiers in the universe.

He was basic-standard. Skin, hair, two eyes, that sort of thing. Most species had some degree of it, but the Tuffles had been almost nothing but. His skin was pale; the tanned tone that it once had held had been bled away by years of ship-living, but the scars remained. Cutting across his face where his helmet had once shattered, bisecting his nose. He wasn't young either, and his skin looked ragged in places, like he'd been driving himself too hard. Not a pretty sight, but at least his eyes still had power in them. They were brown, gazing back at himself with the air of someone who hadn't yet been beaten into submission. His hair was dark brown, streaked in silver.

"How old are you?" He asked himself again, feeling the accusatory stare of his mirror doppelgänger."At your age, you should be playing with grandchildren, not on an impossible quest. Maybe you're just trying to find a way to die..."

The question lingered, and he shook his head. The elevator arrived with a clank, and the door slid open. He threw one last look into the mirror.

"Maybe I am. But I can't die until I do what I came here to do. After that...well, one way or another, it won't matter anymore."

The door opened to the crew compartment. A long corridor which ran half the length of the ship, broken every dozen paces by another passage leading to the next set of rooms. Roran's room choice was practical, the first to the left of the elevator tube. The door there requested a code before it would swing aside, and he quickly punched it in.

The door opened, the light came on and he stepped into the domain that he called his own. It was much like the world below. Barren, and without purpose. Despite the fact that he had lived here for so long, the walls were empty of trophies, pictures, or other assorted things of interest. The shelves were empty. There were no pictures on the walls, and the miniature screen set into the far side of the room was constantly off.

The bed was unmade; a sole sign of life that he allowed in the room. It was a tangle of blankets that he never bothered to fix. In the far corner, there was a wardrobe, at the back, a passage to a second part of the room, blocked by a metal door. Beside the bed, there was a chair, and a computer console that linked to the main computer system of the ship.

This was his room. Much like his life. There was a hidden layer to it, though. At the metal door, he passed, and typed in a second entry code. This one was longer and more complex, but it wasn't long before that door moved aside as well. Revealing a small corridor leading into a tiny chamber. Into this, the old Tuffle stepped.

The tiny chamber was just about big enough for two people to stand in. Lights on the roof winked on, revealing a cold metal place. Wires ran across the floor, plugging into ports that connected to a slab of metal that was set in the centre of the room. The metal slab was marked with instruments and buttons on one side, and the other contained a man-sized locker. A third set of numbers was needed here, to open that door, but after a moment, this opened as well.

His armour was here. Set carefully into the indents in the inside of the locker made exactly for this purpose. The armour of the elite Tuffle Guard, now mostly lost. To some, it would be a priceless artefact. He ran a hand over the chest guard; it wasn't metal. It was a kind of poly-plastic, dreamed up to form the armour for warships, but never properly employed. Too much of it got out of control, but a small enough amount could be worked well. Enough to build armour.

The chest guard clipped around his body as he raised it into position, he felt it extend across his back, rolling out sections to cover his whole mid-body despite the small appearance of the initial piece. Next, he put on the boots, and the gauntlets. Each of them syncing up to the computer set into the chest, and then forming a solid link with it in the form of the armoured extensions which rolled across his hand. They were heavy and cold, but only for a moment. As soon as they linked to the chest piece capacitor, power flowed through them, and he felt strong again.

Stronger than he'd ever be without the armour…

Tuffle Power Armour. What a useful device. He looked at himself in the mirror set into the inside of the locker door. The armour was a dull brown colour, not dissimilar to that worn by other species. But it broke apart his silhouette, made him look bigger and tougher than he really was. It had been reserved only for the royal guard… too hard to make even with all the resources of a planet behind it. Now? It was practically extinct.

Damn Saiyans.

Damn them all to hell.

Except that they had already went to hell, hadn't that? They were gone now, every one of them. And his world with them. In the end, they'd taken everything, and left absolutely nothing for him. But that didn't matter, even the hatred he felt was muted with age. He didn't have the energy to really hate like he once had. The Saiyans were dead, so he'd call it even. So long as he never met another living one, anyway.

He lifted the final piece. The helmet of the armour was beautifully worked. A curving smooth dome that left the face clear. He put it on, and felt it sync to the rest. A protective sheet extended across his neck, and he was connected to the world outside now only by the small hole where his face was.

At his command, a visor extended down from the forehead of of the piece, and a metal guard rose up to meet it. Sealing him from the world entirely. Roran stood there for a moment, and then took a deep breath, tasting the recycled from the tanks of the suit.

Images appeared on the green screen of the visor, power read-outs, status updates.

Weapons checks.

Roran nodded to himself in satisfaction. Everyone was solid and good. He'd been a bit concerned, since it had been so long since he'd used any of this old junk, but everything was working exactly as it was supposed.

Fifteen minutes later, he was once more standing on the bridge of the Wanderer. This time, Caspi was much closer. Ten more minutes to docking bay. Then, he'd need about another ten to get passed the inspection, and get into the station. His weapons would be noticed, but no one would care terribly much. Like Doron below it, Calpi was not the sort of place that shied from death or killing.

He looked at the station. It had seemed so small at first, but now it was vast, taking up the entire screen. Somewhere down there, there was the thing he had come for. The one thing that made this all worthwhile.

The one chance he had to save his world.


	2. Dreams of What Was, Make That Which Is

At the heart of the matter, once you got right down to it, and cut out all the other minor or not so minor means to make a profit, Caspi Station was a trading post above all else. A massive one, bloated with the money of hundreds of races, and swarming with arms dealers, soldiers and mercenaries like ants in nest, but a trading port nonetheless. A significant amount of the internal spacing was given over to providing a place for the off-world traders to live, eat, sleep and yes, to do business. To that extent, the station hosted three great trade halls, which were really more like cities.

Yes, to Roran, it seemed that cities were an appropriative image. On their own, each hall was a space wide enough for a block of buildings, reaching up to the sky where the vast underside of the domed structure could be seen. There was enough air space for machines carrying passengers to flit to and fro, from building to building. And there were buildings, oh yes. Everything ranging from massive structures of gleaming steel to tiny shacks of rotting wood. Everyone and anyone who had some kind of product to sell was doing it here. Roran passed high-tech stalls laid out with weaponry, lasers, slug-throwers and shields. Near them, there was a market place selling fresh food from a dozen worlds, and not so fresh from a dozen more. Above them, there loomed the massive multi-story buildings belonging to the giants of the trade halls, the corporations, and the conglomeration responsible for selling and buying mining equipment, ships, soldiers, goods and arms. These buildings loomed, noticeably different from the others, to Roran's eye. Squat and heavy, reinforced with armour, each one flying its own private banner like the flag of a warring nation.

 _So, the battles don't just go on down on the battle._ He thought to himself. _People fight up here as well. I guess it's not surprising. This is where most of the money is made too, and I can't believe it's all legit._

There were streets that snaked between the rows of buildings, forming a network of arteries that could bring one anywhere that they needed to be in the trade-city. Moving along them there were floating cars, each one the size of a bus. They were sleek and silver, piloted by a droid slaved to the main computer. Taking those who had the money to pay wherever they might want to go.

For those who didn't want to pay, or who couldn't afford to, there were smaller paths set between the main road, upon which most of the bigger buildings bordered. These were crowded; merchants shouted out the wares they had to sale, people walked past, gangs of soldiered on break stood in sullen silence.

Above everything, there was the noise. The noise of millions of people going about their day, living and growing older.

And this trade city was only one of three! All of equal size. It struck him how vast this whole place had to be. A cold feeling of awe and shock which spread across his body. He paused in the middle of one of the streets, and just stared.

This is what was taken from us. He thought, after a moment of silence. This is what we should have had. He imagined what it would be like to walk along streets like this on a Tuffle city, surrounded by crowds of Tuffles, his own people.

It was a pleasure lost to him now. All he could do was to try to remember what it had been like.

Roran stopped by a street terminal to pull up a map of the city, the crowd mulled around him aimlessly. So many people after so long alone was enough to make him feel wary, and his eyes hardly stopped moving behind the green glass of the visor. Seeing each person coming close to him, and preparing for a fight. He knew none of them meant harm, but he couldn't help it. Crowds, they scared him just a little. Too long out on his own in the depths of space.

The terminal gave a sharp sound, reminding him of his question and telling him that it had been answered. He looked down, the screen was displaying a map with sections of the city – Alpha City, it was called – coloured and marked. He ordered it to download directly to his visor, and after a moment, it did so. Finding the computer stored in the chest piece. Map now displayed in the corner of his eye, he moved off.

This place was so big, he could be searching for weeks or months before he found what he was after. He'd known before, of course, but seeing it was so different from just reading about the size. Now it was real.

Real enough to be dangerous, he thought to himself, as he caught a blond man in the corner of his eye. The man seemed to be looking at him strangely, and Roran braced, but there was a moment of tense anticipation, and the man walked away.

Just nothing. The Tuffle told himself with a sigh. I'm getting jumpy in my old age.

While he knew what he wanted, it was unlikely to be listed on the map he'd just been given. At least, he could use the map to mark out places where it probably wouldn't be. The auto-bay, for instance. That was the name of the part of the city dedicated to vehicles of all kinds. He decided it was unlikely to be there, and marked it as such. The banking sector was also marked off, as was the mining sector. That still left so many, though…

Well, he knew that he would probably be here for a while when he arrived.

Over the next few days, he made his inquiries. Sleeping on board the Wanderer each night, he spent the days trailing across sectors of the city he had marked as promising. Eating at different vendors or restaurants, and putting out word of his search to those who would listen. He paid locals, and those who were good at finding things to try and track down what he was looking for, but even so, it was long and hark work. He returned each day to his bed, peeling off his armour in an exhausted haze. He hadn't walked for so long in ages, and each morning, he rose and donned the armour ready to try again.

About a week passed in this manner, before he got the first inkling that he had come to the right place. He was standing in a street that looked just like any other in the city. Traders swamped the area, chattering and talking amongst themselves. He did his best to tune them out, but enough got through that he was on edge despite himself. He was doing his best to hold a conversation with the man behind the trading kiosk piled high with miscellaneous pieces of metal and junk.

Roran handed him an item, a rough woollen bag about the size of of a closed fist. The trader – an Arkosian with four arms – held it thoughtfully, and seemed to be weighing it.

"Dangerous thing." It said at last. Insect mouth chattering as it spoke. "You want rid of? Will cost you."

"No." Roran replied. "I don't want rid of it. I want to know who made it. I am confident that it was from this station. The previous owner told me as such."

"Hard." The giant insect said, palm still closed around the bag. "No distinguishing features… You sure it came from here?"

"As sure as can be. The last guy was very certain."

"You know what it is?"

"It's a bag." Roran shrugged, trying to play off the question. "The last person who owned it said that it might be magical, but I don't believe in things like that."

"Yet, you want to know where it came from?"

"The person who owned it tried to kill me. Call it settling a score."

"Hmm. It's a curse bag. Very powerful. Very dark. Old magic. Not the kind that's used often off-world."

"Your people have such a thing?"

"Legends, rumours. Most don't think magic exists. We know. We also know to fear it. Someone tried to kill you with it, yes?"

Roran didn't answer, and that, for the insect, was answer enough.

"Yes, and they almost succeeded didn't they?"

Again, silence.

"Very dangerous magic. Tendency to backfire. Know how to destroy, know how to mitigate, how to track? That's beyond me."

"I'll have it back then." Roran said, holding out his hand. After a moment, the insect dropped it back into his palm, and his fingers folded over the rough cloth.

"Rather you than me…" the creature muttered. "Magic such as that doesn't rest easily, even when it is in your hands.

"Is there anyone on this station who can help with this? I've been looking for a long time now."

"Better than me? No." The insect let out a wheezing laugh through its clicking mandibles. "If you search for magic here, you search in the wrong place. Maybe the bag came from here, but if so, I know not who could have made it. You have come searching in vain."

"Is there not anyone?" Roran pressed. "If you know a little, perhaps there are others? Someone must have made it, and I know that someone was here. Tell me of those who practice your arts that dwell on the station."

"I couldn't, I don't know enough." The creature laughed. "But I suppose I can try to find something if I look hard enough."

"Let me guess, you want paid for it?"

"Of course." The creature laughed again, the sound was grating, cutting above even the chattering of the crowd. Roran did his best not to flinch. "You're asking me to put in no small amount of work, just to find someone that I do not even know is even here. Compensation isn't much to ask now, is it?"

"That depends entirely on how much."

"Three thousand credits, up front."

"You could buy a ship for that!"

"Only a bad one. It isn't too much to ask for, is it?"

"What do you think?! The amount you're asking for is absurd!"

"You will find no one else on this station with the capability to do as you ask, but if you like, take your money and search. I will be waiting for you here when you return - and the price will have tripled!"

Roran bit down a retort, forcing himself to breath deeply the recycled air of the space station, he was clothed in his power armour, but the visor was raised so that he could observe things with his own eyes, and taste the bitter oxygen pumped by the massive air filters hidden under the floor and titanic walls.

In truth, he had the money. More than that, in fact. A life time of bounty hunting had ensured that he had plenty to bring to the table now. He didn't spend much on himself, only what was required to repair his equipment, and maintain the Wanderer. He was good at his job too, sometimes he wondered if he was too good. Roran did his best to ensure that his marks each deserved the death he set upon them, but he wasn't fool enough to think that he had always succeeded in this. Innocent blood had been shed by his hands. Only the hope of this current quest kept him going, had pulled him from the death-spiral of his life before.

Put like that, what was three thousand? Three kay credits against the chance to save his world and people? It was nothing. Nothing at all. Problem was, the alien was watching him. Roran wasn't good at reading Arkosians. They were insectoids, not mammals or reptiles like most forms of sapient life. He couldn't read them well at all, but even so, he was sure he saw the glimmering green in those compound eyes.

"Can you really find what I want? Or are you just playing me for the money?"

"I like money." The creature admitted happily. "But I also know when I see someone who should not be trifled with. That armour, is Tuffle, correct? An elite set?"

"You know?" Roran blinked. "I didn't think anyone would recognise it here. It didn't leave homeworld often."

"Seen its like before." The alien said. "Only once. Smuggled off Planet Vegeta during the reign of the Saiyans. Good piece. Sold for well over ten thousand credits. Always wanted to get another. But that piece was broken, for a museum, not suitable for a warriors. Yours is different. To have it and wear it, you must know how to fight. And you called Planet Vegeta ''Homeworld''' not often I meet a Tuffle like you. I thought you were all dead. Now I see why you wanted to know of the mystic arts. But what you desire is impossible. It cannot be done. There is no force that can revive a world."

"My goal doesn't matter." Roran snapped, with a bit more bite than he had intended, but the insect's words had struck deep, stabbing into his deepest fears. The possibility of failure. "You know who I am, and you know what I want. You know what I would give to get it, and you know what I would do to protect that goal. Is that why you say that I can trust you?"

The insect clicked its mandibles a few times.

"Yes." It replied. "Money good. Being alive to spend money is better. Tuffles died long ago, to have lasted so long, you must be a fighter. That class of armour marks you as elite… royal guard, perhaps? In either case, you're good at killing, and I don't want to find out that I am good at dying. Three thousand, and I find what you want. But be careful warrior, I'll warn you now one more time. There is no mystical force that can do what you wish. If you continue on this path, you'll simply throw your own life away."

"I can't throw away something that has such little value to it anyway." Roran returned. "I['m a man without a people, without a cause or a purpose. I should have children by now, and they should have children. Instead, I'm alone. I've not truly lived since my world was destroyed… do what I ask you, and I'll pay your price."

The Arkosian nodded.

"Very well. Three thousand credits. And a contact number as well. This may take a few days."

* * *

 _He didn't always dream of Oozaru. Though, this was the most common dream, he had others as well. Most of them unpleasant, though few quite as bad as the dream of the death of his world. He'd lived a long life. Serving as a bounty hunter thanks to the capabilities of his suit. It was not an honourable trade, but he needed to survive. Driven on by an urge he didn't quite understand. He was the last Tuffle, and so, so long as he lived, the Tuffles weren't dead. Not fully. He owed it to them to live for as long as possible._

 _So, he had many dreams. Some pleasant, but most not. But tonight, however, he dreamed of one of his most critical moments. The day when things had changed. The time when he had gone from hopeless to filled with purpose._

 _The day he had felt like a Tuffle once more._

 _The rough ground of Melvor crumbled under the armoured plating of his boot. The wind screamed, driven through the canyons and rock-formations by the force of its own momentum. Sounding like the cries of a dying world. But if this was the case, then Melvor had been dying for hundreds of years._

 _In truth, he was already dead. There was no life on Melvor. The place was a wasteland, burned to the ground by the Saiyans long ago, and too badly damaged for anyone to want to buy. It was home now only to those who had nowhere else to go, those who wanted to hide._

 _Trumpa lay panting on the ground before him. Blood oozing from the deep cut which ran diagonally down his chest. The odd alien, of a species that Roran didn't recognise, was clamping his arm to the wound, but that didn't stop the copious flow of the red liquid. His other arm had been torn away in their clash. Roran's armour was hardly damage free itself. Silent warnings flashed softly before his eyes. Noting overheated weapons, broken servos, cracked armour, and burned out circuits._

 _It had been the hardest fight he'd had in years, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat, his helmet's visor had been shattered, but by some miracle, his eyes had been spared._

 _"Trumpa." He said, his voice was tired, and shouting above the ever-present wind was a pain, but he forced himself to continue. Everything had to be by the book, after all. "You're being detained. I have a bounty for your capture, signed by the heads of several worlds including Nova Prime, where you planted a bomb to destroy a city section. Thousands of people died. They paid eighty percent of your bounty. I should mention that while the preference is to have you alive, a body is also acceptable. Don't make me end this battle now."_

 _The alien glared up at him. Trumpa was of an unknown race, his skin a vivid shade of green. His clothes were loose, flowing, easily discarded in battle to allow him to strike swiftly and with power. His eyes were not beaten, there was defiance in them still._

 _"You can't take me." He growled. His voice full of pain. "I won't let you take me in like this!"_

 _He sprang forward suddenly, single hand twisting into a claw as it struck for his exposed face. Roran ducked, the arm swept overhead, and he slammed a blow into Trumpa's open chest. He felt flesh deform, and what he was sure were bones crack. Whirring servos in his suit increased the power of his blow, magnifying it so that the desperate fugitive was flung back to the earth, spitting and spluttering blood, gasping for air._

 _"Please don't do that again. I said I don't want to kill you, but I will if you make this difficult."_

 _"You…" The alien gasped and spat blood, trying to stagger up right, but only managing to bring himself crashing back to the ground, his attempt to support himself with his arm failed when he chose the arm that he didn't actually have anymore, and he fell, striking his head on the ground. Trumpa groaned, and rolled, still glaring at him._

 _"Kill me if you must, hunter." He groaned. "The fate that I would have at the hands of Nova Prime is nothing less. I see no reason to parade myself like a trophy to the executioner's block."_

 _"The consequences of your actions are on you. If you had not killed those people, I doubt we would be here now."_

 _"I had to kill them!" The alien snarled. "I had no choice at all! I needed something from them, their youth!"_

 _"You killed them for their youth?"_

 _"Yes." Trumpa growled. "As each soul flew free, I gathered a little of its power. An old ritual, a magic invented by my father long ago. Sadly, it killed him, but I refined and perfected it! That way, I would never be old again. Never wither, never die. Always be young and strong. Yes, I killed them, but can you really say that it was not for a good cause?"_

 _"Thousands of lives for one isn't a good trade, even if magic was real."_

 _"Bah. What do you know? Your stupid little man in your stupid little armour. Have you felt the cold claws of death closing about your body? Do you know the horror of your power shrinking day by day? The growing knowledge that you have only a little time left? Have you ever had the cold realisation that your life was measured in weeks and months, not years and decades? I have. My father has. I remember both times. What I did, I did for a good purpose. For the best purpose that there was. My own survival! I was old and fragile, now I am young and strong! Can you not see the difference?"_

 _"Yes." Roran admitted. "It made identifying you problematic. I suspected that you had employed some kind of regenerative technology, or this was an ability of your people. You're telling me that you used magic to make yourself younger?"_

 _"Absolutely!" You see before you absolute proof of the existence of magic. Can you still cling to your silly technology now?"_

 _"Considering that silly technology beat you black and blue? I think I'll hold onto it, thanks. Now get up, you're coming with me."_

 _He reached down, and gripped Trumpa by the arm, hauling him to his feet. The green-skinned alien groaned in pain, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Do you know something else, bounty-hunter?"_

 _"No, but I'm sure that I'm about to."_

 _"The ritual. The one I conducted. It was flawed as well. You see, it limited me, for a little while. As I assimilated the power I took. My true strength was chained. You came at a good time, because my power was not even a third of what it should be."_

 _"How impressive. By the time it matters, you'll dead be dead."_

 _"Yes…" Trumpa groaned. "But there's one thing thing related to it. Just as the ritual sealed my power for a time, the youth I gained in return unsealed abilities I thought long lost to me. You see, when I was old, I became inflexible. Unable to make use of my natural powers. Now, I'm healed. I can use those abilities again."_

 _"So you're going to spit acid at me, then?"_

 _"No, that's not a power my kind have. Namekians can do something else, though."_

 _"Oh? And what's that?"_

 _"We regenerate."_

 _At those words, the stump of Trumpa's severed arm begin to bubble, flesh writhing before his eyes. Roran saw it, and froze shock as a shower of blood erupted from the wound, and a new arm fully formed, followed it. Fingers still dripping with gore now posed right above his shattered visor._

 _"So." Trumpa said. "Shall we see who can kill who first this time?"_

 _His hands filled with energy, and in desperation, Roran threw him, kicking away as the ground beneath him exploded._

 _That had been the first time. The first time that he had come into contact with magic. It had been subtle, a name - the Namekians - and a supposed ritual to restore youth. It had seemed utterly ridiculous, and yet, Roran had been intrigued. Intrigued enough that later, he did some research on their species. Discovering that there was very little to do with the Namekians that was recorded anywhere at all._

 _It was as though someone had tried to erase them._

 _But he had found out about their origins, their powers, even if no one knew where they were now._

 _He also learned of what they were said to be able to do._

 _He learned about the Dragon Balls._

 _That was the day he stopped floating helplessly in the tide, and started to fight back. For the first time in years, he had hope again._

 _He'd be damned before he let it slip away this time._

* * *

Roran woke up with a start, sweat beaded his naked body, and he threw the blankets off himself, struggling in the darkness before he remembered to turn on the light. He was sitting in bed, and something had woken him up. A soft beeping sound. Coming from the communicator on his bedside table. He reached over for it, and flipped it on, pressing it to his ear.

"I don't know who this is, but it better be good."

"It is." Replied a voice, the voice of the Arkosian from before. "I have found what you want! I have the location of the one who made the curse-bag! All you need to do is to come down and meet them yourself."


End file.
